08 Jun Night No. 1: HoneyLingus from 101 Nights of Great Sex

In case you didn’t know, my husband and Henry and I are working our way through that seminal book 101 Nights of Great Sex by the dulcet Laura Corn.

This is our second foray into the book. Our first adventure, The Velvet Tongue, was a smash hit.

Let me set the scene for adventure number two, HoneyLingus.

It’s my niece’s wedding weekend in Santa Barbara. My man has been running errands for his mother and sister who are throwing the wedding in my mother-in-law’s bucolic backyard garden in two days time.

So when I arrive in Santa Barbara I’m fairly certain I’ll find my man lying prone in a corner, utterly decimated by the Bossy Woman onslaught and in no mood to pleasure yet another Bossy Woman in his life (moi, in case I’ve been vague.)

But that night, in our hotel room, as I’m foraging for unflattering cellulite pictures of beautiful celebrities in US magazine (I’d already read The Economist earlier that morning so don’t judge me) Henry pokes his head out of the bathroom to say he’s drawn me a bath.

Was ist das? I think. (My sexual avatar is German, FYI)

On entering the bathroom I notice the corpse of a gallon jug of full-fat milk on the bathroom counter. Quickly I look at the bath to see it bears a milky white sheen.

“Is there milk in there?” I ask.

I can’t quite keep the trepidation out of my voice. I’m just not sure about cow’s milk finding its way into all of my hidden grottos.

Henry affirms that it is indeed milk because he’s giving me a milk bath. I shake off my lackluster reaction and climb in. That’s when Henry makes a loofah sponge appear in his hand as if he was pulling a rabbit from a hat.

He then begins scrubbing my back.

Here’s the thing. Henry does this kind of thing for me all the time. I’m a spoiled wench in that way, so this isn’t untrod terrain for me.

While I certainly appreciate the back exfoliation (and my skin does take on the feel Burmese satin), I don’t morph into a Volcano of Lust.

After the bath Henry presents a squeezable bottle of honey as if he were revealing his magician assistant’s body sawed in half.

He tells me to hide six dabs of honey anywhere I want on my body, informing me it will be his job to find them and … well, I suppose the “Lingus” portion of my headline hints at what happens next.

In the bedroom Henry travels the terrain of my body and finds every last drop of honey, but again this is something he does fairly regularly, sans honey.

To make matters worse, the damned German neatnik in me keeps worrying the honey might get on the bedspread and notices that everything feels sticky; my armpits hermetically sealed by coagulated bee’s nectar so I keep sort of wanting it to be over so I can wash the honey off.

I realize that I’m failing at this particular Great Night of Sex and wish I were more earthy like, say, Carole King during her Tapestry phase and not quite so much like Monica on Friends and begin to think my neatness is probably one of the main reasons orgasms are so complicated for me.

To add another layer of sheer lameness on my part I’m ticklish and can’t stop laughing when Henry is licking my ribs and the inside of my elbows and then his saliva starts to dry and feel kind of sticky too and …

Sigh.

So for me, meh.

But Henry (Henry? Care to comment?) seems to have a very good time.

So we are 50% successful and seem to have shucked off all of the stress from the build-up to the wedding and feel quite happy with each other. Almost to the point of smugness.

Next week it’s my turn to rip out an envelope from the book and seduce Henry. I’m just hoping I don’t have to melt caramel and drizzle it all over my body while lubricating my lady bits with Gak.

Ohward ho!

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